


Come away, come away with me

by ShapeShiftersandFire



Series: The Bellows Are Gone [3]
Category: Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark (2019), Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark Series - Alvin Schwartz
Genre: Blood, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Pre-Canon, bit of a cliffhanger ending, closet corpse, ephraim bellows is Not Okay, gertie bellows is Not having a good time, rotten corpse mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23948890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShapeShiftersandFire/pseuds/ShapeShiftersandFire
Summary: Gertrude was the meanest, most miserable person you could imagine. And her husband was just as bad.Or, Gertrude is the fourth to face Sarah's wrath.
Series: The Bellows Are Gone [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596235
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Come away, come away with me

**Author's Note:**

> _Deep in the night when the moon’s glowing bright, they come rising up into the night_
> 
> -lord huron, ghost on the shore

Ephraim doesn’t know when morning comes, but he wishes it didn’t. In the gray morning light, he can see the scene clearly, now crawling with law enforcement officers (When did Father call them? He doesn’t remember.): in the middle of the pavement is a massive, dark red puddle, now dried and staining the drive. A ragged series of drag marks leads away from the puddle, interrupted by massive bloody paw prints. Ephraim doesn’t need to follow them to know they’ll lead nowhere, just like Delanie’s trail had.

He thinks the officers may have spoken to him at one point or another. He can’t remember. He’s not even sure how he ended up sitting on this rock with a blanket around his shoulders. He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there, staring at that dried puddle of blood.

 _Too long,_ but he can’t look away. It’s so out of place, such a stark, violent reminder of what happened here that he can’t tear his eyes from it. That came from his brother. From his little brother, four years his junior. His brother, who he’d made promise him he’d come home. His brother who now wasn’t coming home.

He can’t deny that this time, not like he could Delanie’s. That’s too much blood. He’s a doctor. He knows a man couldn’t survive that kind of blood loss.

A dozen or so fleeting excuses die before they can full form. _He fought back. It_ _’s not all his blood. Whatever attacked him must have been bleeding too._

_What was he going to tell his grandmother?_

He’ll worry about that later.

Ephraim doesn’t know when the activity around the scene dies down. He doesn’t know when his father finally gets him up and starts herding him away from the area, all he can do is stare at that dried puddle in the middle of the pavement. And even when he’s in the carriage and far from the mill, he still feels like he’s staring at it.

Gertrude has half a mind to scold her son and grandson until the Second Coming when they return home. What were they thinking, leaving a woman her age alone during the night— _all night—_ without calling ahead, without letting her know where they were going? Without calling her to let her know they were safe? And alive? With all that’s already happened, how could they not have the common sense or _decency_ to tell her they were stepping out of the house?

They’re lucky she’s as adept as she is at maneuvering about the house with her blindness. If it had happened but a month ago she’d need assistance just getting from the bedroom door to her bed, but it’s been twenty-five years and Gertrude is no stranger to finding her way around without sight.

She’s waiting for them in the living room, having managed to start a fire on her own, and grumbling about it all the way. The front door opens and the pair shuffle in. They’re quiet, but Gertrude knows their footsteps. Deodat is leading the way, Ephraim is trailing behind. But they both sound… _off._ Ephraim’s pace is slow and lethargic, not at all confident and purposeful. And Harold—

Gertrude listens. The front door shuts. Deodat. Ephraim. _Where is Harold?_ She grips the hook of her cane.

When the pair come into the living room, Gertrude snaps her head up toward them. “Where have you two been?” she demands. “What were you thinking, running about all night? And without informing me?”

(Still, she thanks God they’re safe. They’ve come home.)

(She wishes her daughter-in-law was with them.)

( _Where_ _’s Harold?_ )

Neither of them answer. Two chairs scrape along the rug, creaking as the men sit down.

“There was an accident at the mill last night,” Deodat says slowly. Gertrude can hear his voice wavering, forcing out each word. She tightens her grip on her cane. The implications aren’t good.

Ephraim hiccups. “ _Harold—_ ”

 _Harold?_ Every ounce of anger Gertrude had vanishes immediately. _What happened to Harold?_

“Deodat,” she says firmly, now trying to hide the waver in her own voice, “what happened to your son?”

A moment of silence and a sniff before Deodat answers (in the chair beside him, Ephraim sniffs twice and makes a noise like he’s trying not to cry). “We don’t know—”

“What do you mean _you don_ _’t know_? Any incidents inside the mill should be—”

“It wasn’t inside the mill.” Ephraim, forced and shaking with fury. “It was _outside._ When he was _leaving._ ”

The cane threatens to slip from Gertrude’s hand. She leans it against the fireplace, out of the path of the fire, and folds her hands in her lap to stem her shaking. There’s nothing to stop her heart from racing, or the knot that’s in her stomach. “What happened?”

“We don’t know,” Deodat answers again. “We think he was attacked by something—”

“Oh, God,” Ephraim keens, “there were paw prints. There was so much blood. Oh, God, oh, God…”

Gertrude swallows painfully.

“Mother,” Deodat says, though his voice is nearly drown out by Ephraim’s distraught muttering, “Harold is gone.”

 _Harold is gone. Harold. Gone._ Gertrude doesn’t understand what she’s been told. Harold is gone? Gone how? Where’s he gone? But Ephraim is in the corner of her thoughts, wailing like a wounded animal, frantic about blood, blood, so much blood—

“What do you mean _gone?_ _”_ She almost doesn’t hear herself say the words. How could Harold be gone?

“Gone,” Deodat repeats, helplessly, vaguely. “Dragged off into the night. The officers followed the trail…”

His next words are lost on Gertrude, but she knows innately what’s to come: _as far as they could, but found nothing._ She folds her hands tightly. Bitterness has always been a friend of hers, always been the one thing she latched too when grief became too much; what she traded in for anger when bitterness wasn’t appropriate enough. This time, neither of those are enough to stop the grief that drowns her.

(She hasn’t felt like this is a very long time.)

(She wishes her veil were heavier.)

“Gone?” she echoes. She hates the way her voice cracks. She’s always praised herself on being perfectly in control, never faltering or cracking. And yet…

“Gone,” Deodat confirms. “The police are investigating.” But his voice falls flat. He knows they won’t find anything. They won’t find Harold, they won’t find whatever attacked him. All they’ll find is a trail that ends abruptly, just the way Deodat had with Delanie.

Gertrude tries to blink away the stinging in her eyes, only to feel warm tears on her face. No. No, no, she is _not_ going to cry in front of her _son_ —

But her grandson is utterly beside himself. Ephraim sobs and coughs like he’s an uncontrolled five year old whose lost a petty children’s game. He should know better.

 _Control yourself!_ Gertrude wants to snap. She wants to smack him with her cane. _You_ _’re a grown man, not a little boy. Men don’t snivel and whine, not for anything. Have you learned nothing?_

Amid the noise is Deodat leaving his chair and coming to put a hand on her shoulder. “Be gentle with him, Mother. He’s lost his mother and his brother all in two months.” Then he squeezes her shoulder, and the tears she fights to keep back behind a wall of bitterness and irritation and anger threaten to force their way out. Her son’s voice cracks. “And I’ve lost my wife and son.”

Gertrude turns her head away from him. No, she can’t do this again, she’s eighty-three, she’d expected to be _survived_ by her son and daughter-in-law, not _outlive them_. Not since Albert, she can’t—

“I’ll mourn on my own time,” she forces out, laying her hand on his. He lets her go. Gertrude takes her cane and returns to her room, leaving Deodat to comfort his distraught son. She calls Demetrius to her side as she shuts the door. The Dobermann comes immediately, pushing his shoulder into her leg. Gertrude pats him on the head. He’s a good dog, he’s always been such a good dog. Gertrude leans her cane up against the wall and kneels down to his level. She lifts her veil over her head, cups Demitrius’ face in her hands, runs her thumbs over his ears. She’s always preferred dogs. Unconditionally loving, devoted, never ones to judge—the perfect companions. And when Gertrude presses her forehead to the Dobermann’s and allows herself to mourn, she knows Demetrius won’t judge her.

Deodat closes the mill for the next week. Gertrude shuts herself away in her room. Ephraim calls out of work. It comes as a shock to his staff, Doctor Bellows has never _once_ called out of work, but they understand. In that same call, Ephraim manages to pull himself together long enough to make arrangements for his patients to be seen by other doctors. He stresses that protocol is too be followed. Stresses it to his staff, even though he really can’t be bothered to follow through. His brother is dead. He doesn’t care what happens.

The town thinks there’s a serial killer on the loose. Ephraim scans the paper without really reading it, but he sees the headline: HAROLD BELLOWS DEAD. SERIAL KILLER IN OUR MIDST? The article mentions Delanie. In spite of Deodat’s insistence that she’s left the state, people are now thinking she’s been murdered.

They aren’t wrong.

Ephraim knows this. He doesn’t care.

He tries not to stare with dead eyes at the reporters who come uninvited to the house. “Get off my property,” he tells them. “We’re mourning.” He doesn’t know if they leave, when they leave. He doesn’t care. He locks the door and shuts the curtains just to be sure.

He waits for the day the police conclude their investigation with nothing.

It comes but a week later. As Ephraim knew they would, the police find nothing. No piece of Harold turns up, nothing more than blood and a drag trail that vanishes somewhere in the woods. They don’t find Harold himself, either, nor do they find footprints suggesting someone was commanding whatever large canine attacked Harold. They elect to keep watch for anything as large as what the bloody paw prints indicate, but beyond that there is little they can do, and no charges to press or suspects to locate. In light of that, the investigation is called off. Deodat keeps the mill closed another week to be sure everything is in order (and perhaps time to let the rain wash away the blood stain that no doubt still remains on the pavement).

Unfortunately, the rumors don’t stop swirling. Was Harold really murdered? Was Delanie really murdered? Deodat _had_ looked overly crestfallen at her departure. So had Harold and Ephraim. Are the Bellows hiding something?

(The obvious answer is _yes_ , but how is one supposed to tell the general public that Delanie was dragged off by a _vampire?_ )

The family ignores the questions. They’re all worn and exhausted and grieving. They don’t have the energy or willpower to answer.

Ephraim barely has the willpower or energy to return to work when his week off has passed, and yet he finds himself sitting at his desk, reviewing his patients’ files and their treatments and progress in his absence over the last week. Most, he finds, have improved, and for a brief moment he wonders if there’s something different in the way that they’ve responded to other doctors versus the way they’ve responded to _him._

He pauses a moment, resting the file on his desk. How much has he changed since his family started dying around him? _Has_ he changed? He doesn’t get the chance to wonder properly, because there’s a knock on the door.

Ephraim looks up, his moment of self-awareness forgotten, as he stares into the face of his colleague, Doctor Isaac Bertram.

The file falls to the desk with a slap. Ephraim grinds his teeth. He hates when Bertram visits. The man always seems to have something to say about nothing, hellbent on wasting Ephraim’s time with inane talk he pushes out of his mind the moment the conversation is over. This time, he hates Bertram’s visit more than usual because it’s his first day back at work, and he’s hardly had more then five minutes to begin reviewing the files.

“Doctor Bellows?”

Ephraim sighs. If his eyes hadn’t started glazing over before, they certainly were now. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. “What do you want, Doctor Bertram?”

“To check up on you.” He steps into the office, awkwardly straightening his tie. Ephraim wants to tell him to go away, he doesn’t need to be checked on. He doesn’t. “I’m very sorry to hear about your brother.”

All his anger comes rushing back. _Don_ _’t you talk to me about Harold—_

“How are you?”

With a sigh, Ephraim leans back, forcing his anger away to a place where he can let it seep out little by little and let it out in his voice. “Managing,” he answers, but it’s a lie. He wishes he’d taken more than a week off. Those seven days hadn’t been enough, but it was all he could afford. He needs to get back into something, to keep his mind from spiraling too deeply. He’d barely been able to look at the few files he’d taken home; the ones he’d ultimately returned to the hospital the day after he called out.

Bertram sighs. “Ephraim—”

“ _Doctor Bellows—_ _”_

Bertram pauses, jaw clenched— “I have never been one to intentionally overstep my bounds with you, but are you sure one week was enough time to mourn? Are you sure you’re ready to return to work?

 _No,_ Ephraim wants to say, grinding his teeth. _I_ _’m not ready. I don’t want to be here. I want to be anywhere but here._

_I want my brother back._

_I want my mother back._

“Yes,” he says instead, fighting the few tears that sting his eyes. “Of course I am. Do you doubt me?”

“No. No,” Bertram says, tucking his chin. “Of course not. But if you need more time, I’ll understand. No one will judge you.”

“I’m fine, Bertram.” All Ephraim wants is for this fool to leave. _Get out of my office and leave me to my business._

“I beg to differ.” Bertram’s tone changes entirely. “After your mother died, you lost track of treatment times more than once. Your records are scattered. You’ve been _distracted,_ Doctor Bellows.”

“Of course I have!” Ephraim snaps, shoving his chair away as he stands. “I watched my mother _die!_ I watched some _hellfiend_ drag her from our _living room—_ _”_

 _“What?”_ Bertram’s eyes widen. And of course they do, Ephraim has never told anyone outside the house what happened to Delanie that night. “Ephraim, what—”

“ _Listen!_ _”_ Ephraim roars. “ _Listen._ _”_ He pauses, trying to collect himself in spite of the rage that’s not leaking out, it’s gushing out, there’s no way he can stop it. “Shut the door.”

Bertram does, and then Ephraim tells him everything.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to do so, he doesn’t know why he thinks Bertram will believe him. He feels like a patient instead of a doctor, telling Bertram everything that happened the night Delanie died, right up to the point where he and Harold and Deodat ventured into the woods the next morning to look for her. He knows Bertram doesn’t believe him, he can see it in his colleague’s face. The doctor steps back, runs a hand over his face.

“Ephraim,” he says in a tone Ephraim recognizes—it’s a tone he’s used himself, the one he uses when he tells people that their delusions are just that, when he tells people they’re ill and in need of help, when he tries to push people in the right direction—and Betram is using it on _him._ It lights a new waves of rage. “I know you miss your mother, I do. But this…this is too far. I—Are you sure you shouldn’t commit yourself?”

“ _The hell I am!_ _”_ Ephraim spits. “I will do no such thing!”

“Ephraim—”

“Damn it, Bertram, close your mouth for one minute and listen to me. That _thing_ didn’t just take my mother, it attacked _me._ ” He’s halfway through pulling off his tie when he fully realizes what he’s doing. It’s too late to go back now. He unbuttons his shirt and jacket enough to shove them away to bare his scarred shoulder to Bertram.

Ephraim watches as Bertram’s face pales. His colleague stares at the healed gashes on his shoulder, barely able to pull his gaze away and look at Ephraim. His jaw twitches as he tries to say something, anything. _Choose your next words carefully, Bertram. I_ _’m in no mood for dimwitted comments._

“That,” Bertram says slowly, “that was...really from…” He lets out a petrified breath, staggers back toward the chair in front of Ephraim’s desk. “Ephraim, I’m not a believer in the supernatural, but I-I think there’s something very _wrong_ happening in your house.” He gulps as Ephraim slides his shirt and jacket up and begins to knot his tie. “I think you’ve woken something.”

“And what do you expect me to do about that?”

(Ephraim won’t admit that he’s right, because he is. Something _is_ very wrong at Bellows house.)

Again Bertram falters, words failing him. He begins backing out of the room, his grip almost slips on the folder his carries. “I-I don’t know, I-” He looks toward the door, backs farther still. “I’m sorry. I-I need to go, I have an appointment-I need to go—” And he rushes out of the office without a second thought.

The carriage ride back to the house is done in tense silence. Ephraim has been stewing all day. It’s affected his work, he knows it. He doesn’t have to have Bertram tell him that again. He was harder on his patients than he should have been, allowed his rage to sink into their conversations and treatment periods and he _knows_ he shouldn’t have. He should have stopped and let another doctor take over and excused himself for the day. He never should have tried to work with his patients.

He was unprofessional, and disgustingly so.

And the worst part—Bertram was right. He’s been distracted. He needs more time off. He sighs. When he gets home he’ll call the hospital and tell them he’s taking another week. If Bertram is right (and it pains Ephraim to think he might be), his staff will understand. No questions asked.

When he arrives home, he wordlessly pays the driver and goes inside, thinking back to his conversation that morning and seething.

 _Are you sure you shouldn_ _’t commit yourself?_

Ephraim roughly hangs his coat on the hook.

 _You_ _’ve been distracted, Doctor Bellows._

He goes upstairs, feeling hot with rage.

 _Are you sure you_ _’re ready to return to work?_

He grabs Deodat’s belt from the dresser, snaps the leather once, swings it once, twice, three times, and heads downstairs to Sarah’s room.

_No one will judge you._

Ephraim swings the belt again. _The hell they won_ _’t._ He slides the shelves aside, swings the door opened, and heads downstairs. He swings the belt with each step he takes, grinding his teeth, pushing the first set of metal doors opened before he reaches the door to Sarah’s room. _“Sarah!”_ Another snap of the belt and he all but slams the door in, ready to have a go at Sarah—

And the room is empty.

It’s been empty for months.

Ephraim drops the belt.

How could he have forgotten? Sarah is _dead._ She’s been _dead_ for months. She died while under _his care._ At _his hospital._

 _I_ _’m going mad._ That’s the only explanation for it, he’s going mad. His throat tightens with a rush of nausea. He has to call in, maybe longer than a week. He can’t work like this.

 _I think there_ _’s something very wrong happening in your house._

“Damn it,” he whispers, looking around the room. Nothing about it has changed since the day Sarah left for Pennhurst. Except—

Why was her book out on her desk? Ephraim distinctly remembers putting it away before he took her.

His anger and shock dissolves into something else. Raw, unbridled fear. Every one of his instincts tells him he needs to _run,_ run _now, get away—_ but he shoves it away to get a better look.

He’s not sure what he expects. Some irrational part of him thinks the book will start moving, the pages will turn, a pen from the desk will rise up and start writing on its own. None of that happens, the closer he gets. What he finds instead are pages covered in neat red writing. Sarah’s handwriting.

_What the—_

Ephraim takes the book in his hands and looks at the page in front of him. The title across the top of the page is _The White Wolf._ And before he gets any further, he freezes. _Wolf._

Harold had been attacked and dragged away by a large canine.

He keeps reading.

_The timber wolves in Mill Valley had gotten out of hand. There were so many wolves, the farmers could not stop them from killing their cattle and sheep. So the state put a bounty on them. It would pay a hunter ten dollars for every wolf pelt he turned in._

_A butcher in town named Harold Williams—_

The hair on the back of Ephraim’s neck stood up. His blood ran cold.

Harold Williams. _Harold._

 _His_ Harold? His brother? He reads further, his eyes stinging with tears and his heart beating faster with every word he reads. His hands shake as he turns the page.

_And there were no tracks in the soil around him—_

There was blood on the pavement, blood going into the woods, paw prints in blood, blood everywhere—

_As for the white wolf, it was never seen again._

The police hadn’t found anything. They hadn’t found a wolf. They hadn’t even found fur—

Ephraim flips to the story before. _What the hell, what is this? Why is Harold_ _’s name in this book. What is this?_

The title _The Window_ heads the page. His eyes go to the first line—

_Delanie and her sons—_

Ephraim screams.

Over the sound of her music, Gertrude can hear a fuss downstairs. She leans forward to stop the record. Ephraim’s panicked voice drifts up from the living room.

_“Father! Grandmother! Father!”_

Gertrude immediately grabs her can and makes her way downstairs. Never in all her years has she heard her grandson so _fearful._ Deodat is already there, trying to sooth his panicked son; Ephraim is talking in breaths, Deodat is talking over him, it’s too much for Gertrude to understand exactly what she’s walked into. She manages to pick up a few words: “Downstairs,” “Sarah,” “Breathe, Ephraim—” “Her book,” “Harold”—

“What’s all this?” She reaches her cane out to locate the nearest seat and makes herself comfortable. It’s another minute before the chattering finally stops, before Deodat can calm Ephraim enough to get a few words out in a single, coherent sentence.

Ephraim takes a breath, a shaky, gasping thing, and answers, “I found Sarah’s book…open…on her desk…”

“I thought you’d put it away.”

“I _had_ ,” Ephraim snaps, the fire coming back into his voice. It fades as quickly as it appears. “I found it open,” he says again, “and she’s been _writing in it._ ”

Gertrude tilts her head with a frown. “Writing in it?” Had Ephraim lost it? Well and truly lost it? She knows her grandson hasn’t been himself since Delanie and Harold’s deaths, but she certainly hadn’t expected him to become this unhinged.

(Of course, with her blindness, there’s no way for her to verify that Ephraim is lying one way or the other. She can’t see the supposed writing in Sarah’s book.)

Instead of answering her directly, Gertrude hears the shuffle of the heavily spined book on the table cloth as Ephraim picks it up. The pages flip four times before Ephraim stops flipping. He makes a noise of distress, stumbling over the first word. Gertrude taps her cane on the floor. Once.

Ephraim clears his throat, sighs, and starts, “Delanie and her sons…”

And Gertrude listens with a growing feeling of unease in her gut the longer Ephraim reads. The stories are so eerily similar to past events—granted, what little Gertrude knows about them comes from the pieces she’s able to gather from Deodat and Ephraim when they’re in their right minds. They’re almost… _too_ similar.

Before Ephraim can finish reading Harold’s story—to which Gertrude is certain she knows the ending: the hunter is murdered by the wolf—she raises a hand to cut him off. “That’s enough.”

Ephraim’s voice calls away on a half-formed letter. He doesn’t say more.

“This are _stories,_ ” Gertrude says, with a little more venom than maybe she’d like. “They can’t _hurt_ anyone. Harold and Delanie’s deaths were tragic accidents and _coincidences,_ nothing more.” She stands from her chair, taps her cane once, feels the disbelieving stares of her remaining family on her. “These are _stories._ Tales for _children,_ told by that _disturbed_ offspring of yours. Disturbed enough that she wrote morbid stories about _her own family._ _”_ She directs her ire towards Deodat. “Whatever you thought of her, Deodat—I knew you should have given the little brat away the moment she was born.”

In the wake of the completed investigation, the police continue to say they’ve yet to find anything else related. The Bellows know they won’t—not unless they want to exhume Sarah, but even that will get them nowhere. Instead, the family thanks them and continues to go on as well as they can. Deodat and Ephraim have tried to convince Gertrude that the stories are more than just coincidences, but Gertrude refuses to believe them.

Or so they think.

Gertrude _does_ believe them, to an extent, but never admits it. She has never handled fear well, if at all. Instead, she tries to convince herself that it’s just Ephraim and Deodat’s energy rubbing off on her and not the very real bone-deep fear that’s begun to sunk in, knowing any of them could be killed any night and there’s nothing they can do about it. She thinks they’ve all tried to convince themselves of the same thing as much as they can, but she hears the way Ephraim hovers around the book, flipping the pages through each night to see if anything new is appearing. She’s not sure what he hopes to find, but she thinks he’s slowly losing his mind.

“Perhaps a stay might do you some good,” she tells him one night.

That familiar spark in him comes back as he slams his hand down on the table, rustling the silverware. “I will do no such thing,” he snaps. His spoon clinks on the edge of the bowl as he stirs his soup. “It will do nothing to help me. It will do nothing to help any of us.”

Gertrude flattens her napkin in her lap. “You’re that convinced of this, are you? That we’re going to fall victim to the unhinged imagination of a dead girl?” Deodat’s spoon drops with a harsh sound. He doesn’t move to pick it up. “You were such a smart boy, Ephraim. I’m disappointed to see what you’ve become.”

Ephraim’s falls in much the same way, but with the force of anger behind it. “Then do explain to me, Grandmother, how Mother vanished that night? Why nothing of Harold was found? Tell me what scarred my shoulder, what broke our window. Tell me why we never found my mother. Tell me why the police never found my brother. Go on. I look forward to what you have to say.”

But Gertrude looks down at her lap, grinds her teeth. She can’t answer him. She knows she can’t. Everything he says is true: there _is_ no logical way to explain how Delanie and Harold disappeared, why neither of them could be found, what the creature was that injured Ephraim. No matter how much she wishes there was another way, there isn’t. Delanie was attacked by something… _otherworldly_ , Harold vanished in a puddle of blood without so much as a trace of fur or clothing scraps...and there was no way to explain that.

She looks to Ephraim, sour and disgusted. “I have nothing.”

“Of course you don’t,” Ephraim spits. “You’re too proud to admit any of us are right. Too proud to admit that _your granddaughter—_ _”_

“That girl was _not_ my granddaughter—”

“—is hellbent on _killing us_ from beyond the grave. Your grandson and daughter-in-law are _dead_ and _still_ you can’t—”

“That’s enough.”

Gertrude turns to Deodat, her son having been roused from his sorrowful stupor long enough to tell them to quiet. She bites her tongue, awaiting his next words. (That is, assuming he has any.)

And as it turns out, he does. “Let’s,” he says slowly, “assume the stories and events are connected—” Gertrude can hear it in his voice, that underlying insistence that _they are_ — “and act accordingly. No one stays out past dark. No one leaves Mother alone—”

“I don’t need my hand held, Deodat—”

“We’re not hovering, Mother, we’re keeping a close watch.”

“And what really is the difference—”

“ _Grandmother._ _”_

Gertrude glowers at Ephraim. Deodat continues.

“I will work from home. Ephraim, if you still feel inclined to work at the hospital, do. But don’t stay late. Come straight home.”

“I’ll call ahead, shall I?” The anger has faded out of Ephraim’s voice, into something more subdued.

“Please do.”

And that becomes their routine for the next month or so. The days and nights blend together in a mix of anxiety and hyper-awareness, wondering when and if the next one of them was going to find their name in Sarah’s book.

Gertrude tries to lose herself in her music, but even she catches herself wondering what’s going to appear in the book next. She often doesn’t realize how tense she is when Ephraim leaves in the morning until later in the evening, when he calls to inform them he’s on his way home, and most of the tension goes out of her shoulders. The rest doesn’t leave until she hears him come in the door, alive and well.

It’s much the same for Ephraim and Deodat, as they go about their days, wondering if they’re going to make it through the night. Ephraim hurries from work each day, with only Bertram having the most complete understanding of his need to be home before the sun has set completely. He hasn’t yet told Bertram about the stories, about Sarah, but it’s nothing he needs to know immediately, and it’s not information Ephraim feels very keen to give out.

Instead, he goes through his days, like a frightened deer, only composing himself long enough to make it through patient sessions before he lets the fear eat away at him again, day in and day out.

His only source of relief comes when he arrives home to find his grandmother and father equally alive and well, and finds Sarah’s book devoid of any new stories.

Then, one night, Ephraim comes home to relative silence. No fire burns on the log these nights, in the midst of summer, and yet there’s some kind of scratching sound coming from the living room. Ephraim slowly hangs his coat on the hook, listening. “Father?” But when he enters the living room, no one is around. Yet the scratching sound persists.

 _Rodents,_ Ephraim thinks at first, but something about the sound is more methodical than that, more even rhythmical. It sets him on edge. He listens closer. The sound is most definitely coming from the living room. Deodat’s office door is shut, always is, whether he’s working or not. He never writes that loud.

And the moment Ephraim has the thought, the moment a bolt of cold fear runs through him.

_Writing._

“Father!”

He doesn’t know when Deodat comes into the room; he can hear his father’s footsteps from somewhere in the house, but it’s all overlaid by that neat scratching sound and he knows—he _knows_ —where it’s coming from, but he can’t bring himself to look at the pages, he can’t—

 _What if it_ _’s him?_

“Ephr—” Deodat is beside him. Listening. “ _Ephraim—_ ”

They rush to the book, flip fervently through the pages—

_Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch_

Red ink scrawls across the page, quickly but evenly in neat swirls of letters—

 _It_ _’s Him_ is across the top of the page—

Ephraim’s heart pounds, who’s turn is it, is it his? His father’s, his—

_Gertrude was the meanest, most miserable person you could imagine. And her husband was just as bad._

“ _Grandmother!_ _”_

The book abandoned, red still crawling across the pages, they race upstairs—

“ _Gertrude!_ _”_

The opera music, playing at the lowest possible value so as to not deafen her, is the only way Gertrude has managed to get through the last month. The death of her youngest grandson, her daughter-in-law (and her granddaughter, if she’s to be forced to count that particular loss), all in the span of four or so months.

Losses in such a short period of time hadn’t been uncommon in her earlier years, but to have them now and so suddenly and so _violently_ …it was something else entirely.

Gertrude tries to lose herself in the familiar melodies and the feel of Demetrius’s fur under her hand; the Dobermann sits quietly at her side, as always. So good and so loyal, so unlike people. No matter what the circumstance, she can always trust that Demetrius will never turn on her.

 _So much simpler are dogs,_ she thinks, and flips the disc over after the last song ends.

“ _Grandmother!_ _”_

_“Mother!”_

Ephraim reaches the door first. He yanks on the handle, turns it both ways, but it’s stuck. It won’t budge. He pounds on the door. “ _Grandmother!_ Grandmother, open the door!”

“Mother!” While Ephraim pounds, Deodat tries the knob again. It doesn’t move.

The closet door creaks. Gertrude doesn’t mistake it. She moves the needle from the disc, runs her hand over the surface until it stops spinning. She turns her head toward the closet. Demetrius doesn’t move.

Nothing else happens.

Gertrude frowns, then moves to reset the disc and needle.

The closet creaks again—

“ _Whoooooooo_ _’s going to stay with me this cold and lonely night? Whoooooooo?”_

Fear sends Gertrude’s heart into overdrive. She grips the arms of her chair.

That voice, she knows that voice—

 _No, no, it can_ _’t be, he’s been gone for decades—_

“Who’s there?”

No answer.

Gertrude stands up. “Sarah, you little brat—” Her voice is shaky, she can hear it. Her words don’t carry half as much anger as she wants them to. _I know that voice. I know him._ But nothing happens. No more voices. No more creaking from the closet. She goes closer to the closet. Beside her chair, Demetrius growls.

With that, Gertrude steps away. Dogs, she knows, can sense more things than any human can give them credit for. And she trusts Demetrius’ instincts. The dog knows something’s there.

“ _Whoooooooo_ _’s going to stay with me this cold and lonely night? Whoooooooo?”_ This time, the voice comes but a few inches from her. She can almost feel hot breath on her ear. She can almost smell the familiar scent of wood shavings and machine smoke—

Gertrude cries out and spins around. “A-albert? _Albert?_ ” The word doesn’t come out much more than a squeak, hardly dignified for her. Her chest feels tight, she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe—

“ _Albert—_ _”_

It sounds _exactly_ like him and yet exactly _not_ , there’s something off about his voice, something deeper and uglier and distorted—

That’s when she realizes, as the blood drains from her face, her palm get sweaty, that veil suddenly feels too heavy, too hot—

_This is her story._

_She_ _’s next._

“ _Whoooooooo_ _’s going to stay with me this cold and lonely night? Whoooooooo?”_

It’s even _closer_ now, right on top of her, right behind her—

“Demetrius—”

And still, when she spins around, no one seems to be there. Gertrude tentatively reaches out, only to touch empty air. She backs away from the spot. The closet creaks again.

“Albert…”

No answer.

Gertrude spins, one way, then the other, trying to listen for some sound, some sign that Albert is still in the room with her, even as the pounding in her ears—

_—or is that the door—_

—drowns out everything else.

“Albert?”

More silence.

 _Maybe he_ _’s gone. Maybe I’m imagining things. My fear is getting the better of me, it’s—_

“ _Whoooooooo_ _’s going to stay with me this cold and lonely night? Whoooooooo?”_

Gertrude screams this time, as the voice comes up from behind her. She jumps, backing into the closet door, breath coming out heavy and ragged and of course she has no idea where Albert is now, _she can_ _’t see him—_

Nothing else happens after that. No more voices. No more creaking closet door. No creaking floor boards or footsteps. The room is silent. But Gertrude is on edge. Every fiber of her being knows something is _wrong._ Whatever story Sarah’s written for her isn’t over yet.

_They all end the same way. Delanie, Harold, both of them dead._

There’s no stopping it.

But silence pervades in the room. Gertrude tries to slow her breathing, slow her racing heart, try to get her head in order—

 _Where are Ephraim and Deodat?_ Surely they would have realized by now that something was amiss? Ephraim’s been fussing over that book and everything in it ever since he brought it up from the basement, hasn’t stopped looking at the damn thing, surely he knows her story is being written by now? And Deodat—he’s home, down in his office. Wouldn’t he notice? Couldn’t they hear her?

_Where are they?_

She thinks, from somewhere in the distance, there’s someone pounding on a door. She can’t be sure. She can’t be sure of anything.

Gertrude tries to swallow. Her mouth is dry. “Albert…?”

No ans—

“ _You are!_ _”_

With another scream, before she can get away, a pair of hands are on her, one slapped over her mouth, the other around her midsection, and Albert is dragging her into the closet—

_His hands smell like death and decay—_

_His skin is slimy and rotted—_

_A bone grazes Gertrude_ _’s cheek—_

Gertrude screams behind her dead husband’s hand. The ground disappears from under her feet, the closet clips her ankles as she’s dragged in—

She can’t get a grip on the door—

 _Albert, please! Please, Albert, don_ _’t—_

Despite her blindness, Gertrude knows there’s something different about this darkness. It’s heavier, _darker_ , _suffocating,_ and no matter how she struggles, she can’t get away—

_Deodat!_

Darkness, _darkness,_ and then nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> story: it's him
> 
> gertrude: just last year i lost my dear husband albert  
> albert: quit telling everyone i'm dead!  
> gertrude: sometimes i can still hear his voice


End file.
